Freckles
by tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Gokudera is reading when Yamamoto first notices." Gokudera starts showing signs of sunshine and Yamamoto is thrilled.


Gokudera is reading when Yamamoto first notices.

It's one of Yamamoto's favorite ways to spend the hours after school. Gokudera doesn't study but he insists that Yamamoto should, usually drops into a book and ignores the other boy for an hour or so before Yamamoto can manage to distract him. Today Yamamoto has taken his textbook out of his bag, even has it open in front of him before he realizes that Gokudera is truly absorbed in his book and unlikely to notice Yamamoto watching him. It's a rare occurrence - usually Yamamoto has to sneak peeks when Gokudera is looking away, or briefly distracted by his phone or a book - and the opportunity is more than enough to distract him from the words in front of him. Gokudera is always more interesting than studying or anything else Yamamoto can think of, whether he's frowning in frustration or chewing his lip in concentration or wide-eyed with interest.

Today it's the last. Gokudera is leaning in close to the page, the way he does when he forgets to pretend that he doesn't need reading glasses, his hair falling around his features until he pulls it back and holds it off his face with one hand so he can keep enough light on the page. His back is curved in over the table, shoulders hunched protectively like someone may try to take the text from him; the angle makes the collar of his t-shirt fall loose, gives Yamamoto an inch of porcelain-pale skin to stare at while his fingers curl unconscious desire against the edge of the table.

Then Gokudera shifts, pulls back as he turns the page, and Yamamoto's gaze slides to his features, the soft silver of his hair and the dark smudge of sometimes-insomnia under his eyes to mark the shadow of his eyelashes. That leads in naturally to the line of his nose, the high angle of cheekbones, and Yamamoto's gaze is just starting to slip down the line of Gokudera's jaw to his parted lips when he realizes what he's seeing.

He doesn't think before he moves. It's an easy motion, leaning across the table to brush his fingers to Gokudera's skin, and the other boy is startling away from the unexpected contact before Yamamoto realizes how surprising his touch will be.

"Sorry!" he blurts instantly, fast enough that it comes ahead of Gokudera's snapped, "_What_?" rough with the discomfort of surprise. "I was just looking at your face."

Gokudera has leaned back from the table, out of reach now of Yamamoto's unthinking touch, and there's color rising under his cheeks, flushed embarrassment to match the irritated set of his lips. "You're supposed to be _studying_, not ogling me."

"I was," Yamamoto says, keeps talking fast before Gokudera has a chance to work himself up to true anger. "I got distracted by your freckles."

"You'd get distracted by _anything_," Gokudera growls automatically. Yamamoto can see when his words actually sink in, the way the hard line of his mouth goes soft with confusion. "_Freckles_? I don't have freckles."

"You do." Yamamoto slides towards the corner of the table, reaches out again. Gokudera tips back, wary like Yamamoto's touch is going to mark his skin, but he's still within reach, close enough for Yamamoto to brush his fingertips across the faint smattering of freckles against pale skin. There's only a handful of them, high across the bridge of Gokudera's nose and layering over the top edge of his cheekbones, but Yamamoto still drifts his fingertips over them all, and Gokudera lets him, just stares at him with the weird frightened pleasure in his eyes that always reminds Yamamoto of some half-wild animal.

"There's only a few," he says, careful and gentle with his voice like Gokudera might jerk away if he talks too loudly. "I don't think anyone would notice if they weren't paying attention."

"It must be the sun," Gokudera says. Yamamoto's fingers are still just against his skin, and he's speaking slowly, without any of the bite his words usually have. His eyes are very wide and very green against the pale of his skin. "I was out for hours at your last baseball game."

Yamamoto can't help the burble of delight in his throat, any more than he can stop the smile that catches and spreads across his lips. "They're from my games?"

Gokudera's eyes go wider, his mouth closes so quickly it's like he thinks he can call the words back. "Well." He looks away, hiding behind the cover of his eyelashes and tipping his chin so his hair curtains his face. "Probably." He clears his throat, sharp and rough. "I hadn't noticed. I'll just stop going."

"No!" Yamamoto speaks faster than he intends, the protest startled out of him, reaches out to grab at Gokudera's hand like the other boy is going to get up and leave the room right then. "No, don't, I like them. The freckles." He laughs, tightens his fingers on Gokudera's wrist. "And you. I like having you at my games."

"Oh my god," Gokudera growls. He twists his arm away, reclaims his hand for himself. "You're such an idiot, how can you just _say_ things like that?"

"Because they're true," Yamamoto insists. Gokudera is flushing darker, now, the pattern on his skin showing up more clearly for the glow underneath it. "I do like you. And I like the freckles." He reaches back out with his free hand to touch the heat in the other boy's cheeks; Gokudera grumbles protest under his breath but he doesn't pull away. Yamamoto's fingertips glow warm from the contact. "They're cute. Like you."

Gokudera groans a protest, grabs at Yamamoto's hand to drag his touch away, but he doesn't let go right away, he twists his hand to tangle their fingers together instead of letting his hold go. "Shut _up_." He looks away, tightens his hold on Yamamoto's fingers. "I'm _reading_."

"Okay," Yamamoto agrees, because there was no order in that for him and because Gokudera's hand is still pressing hard against his. He slides around the edge of the table, stretches out across the floor so he can bump his nose against Gokudera's hip before twisting to settle himself with his head on the other boy's leg. Gokudera grumbles some unformed insult and lets his hold go, but it's only to ruffle Yamamoto's hair up over his forehead and twist his fingers into the strands. Yamamoto hums satisfaction, closes his eyes under the gentle tug of Gokudera's fingers, and lets the afternoon slide drowsiness over his thoughts while Gokudera's usual tension gives way to unconscious relaxation.

Yamamoto can't wait for his next baseball game.


End file.
